Gabriel carried me to a carriage and brought me back to Lily House. We were never stopped or questioned regarding the chapel or the fire, Gabriel and Michael made sure to steer clear of the busiest streets to avoid confrontation. I do not know what became of Lucius's body, nor do I want to. I slept for days on end, only waking long enough to inquire about Leviathan and be force-fed soup.

I have yet to see him even though it has been nearly a week since everything happened. He is recovering, or so they tell me. I am afraid of him. I still don't have an answer from Adonai and the presence of the sword on my dresser reminds me each and each time I wake that I must soon do what I set out to accomplish. Leviathan told me he would not fight me, that he would allow me to cut him without argument or plea, but I know it would make no difference. It will be hard either way.

Rosie and I have become somewhat of friends. Although she has not told me much of her past, nor have I told her mine, we seem to have a better understanding of one another. I suppose that the adage of "The enemy of my enemy is my friend" has proven to be true in our case. She was the one they sent to pack my bags this morning—as if I would protest less because it is Rosalie instead of one of them. Or perhaps none of them could bare the idea of my leaving; I am unsure which is the case.

We leave in three days for America—Rosalie and I. We are not out of danger here in London; a danger, which I imagine, will follow us to America as well. For starters, the preacher of Green Parish Church knows I was in his chapel when it went up in flames. As it turns out, Gabriel used a fake name and a fake story to get me room and board, once officials realized who I was and that I have been associated with fires in the past they called me an arsonist. While this title is a bit kinder than "Murderess" or "Demon" it still does not make for flattering headlines. Everyone believes I am being sent to an extreme mental institution in Virginia, of course no such things exists, but no one need know that.

As for my own recovery, it is slow. I have found that the mental damage is equally as gruesome as the physical, perhaps more so since I cannot feel the pain of even my deepest burns. Uriel and Sariel have worked tirelessly to keep me well fed and well tended to. I know, even without seeing my reflection, that I have been shielded somehow from the worst of the fire. My hair is singed in places and the smell of it reminds me of being thirteen and alone. But I am not that girl anymore and I am certainly not alone.

Still, I can see the other markings left by the fire and by Lucius and I wonder if they will scar, add themselves to the washed out mural of my skin.

I have not been allowed to leave my bed except to use the water closet and change my night dress. Gabriel worries over me, constantly coming by my room just to sit with me or ask me if I am in need of anything at all. I ask him about Leviathan but he tells me very little.

But the worst of my injuries lay in my inability to sleep peacefully. I toss and turn, often waking in a panic so great that I get sick all over my bed. My nightmares are no longer of Leviathan, instead, I dream only Lucius. In my dreams, his hands are not stopped by Rosalie's sword. Often, the nightmares are enough to keep me awake. I sit in bed and remind myself that I was not raped. The devil had tried and failed to hurt me. I tell myself these things and yet, in the quiet of the night, I can still feel his breath at my neck, his hands on my waist, on my legs, under my clothes.

Rosalie has not spoken about what happened in the alleyway. She is the only person who knows how close Lucius came, how vulnerable I was. I almost wish she'd tell someone because deep down I wish that my friends knew—but I can't find the words to tell them. I lie about the reason my sheets are damp with sweat, I tell them that soup didn't sit well and that is why I got retched. If Gabriel or anyone else has heard me screaming in my sleep, they have not admitted to it.

I hope that America will banish these memories. I want this to be the new start that everyone keeps saying that it will be. But I worry. I worry because Michael will not speak to me regarding Lucius. He will not confirm that the devil is gone for good. He avoids me. His silence is most frightening of all. Either he knows the truth, and knows I will not survive hearing it, or he does not know at all—I don't know which is worse.

On another note, it is my desire to do my best to compile some sort of record, no matter how unbelievable, of my experiences. I do not know if anyone would believe me, but I feel I owe it to myself and perhaps to others to try to explain what has occurred over the last few months. I have already started to arrange my own documents into an order that is easily understood. Rosalie was quite willing to lend her own correspondences and has even offered to assist me in compiling the documents. I have filled in the occurrences of the last few days as best as I can recall them and I shall ask Leviathan to do the same as soon as he is able. This way, we shall hopefully have a full picture.

Rosalie has returned to the Ballentyne and brought back with her armfuls of documents, letters and the like, all of them belonging to Lucius. She had left them on my vanity, awaiting my perusal. I am afraid to even touch them.